


Bright as a Flame, Soft as a Rose

by aquietpersonwithaloudmind



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, F/M, Florist AU, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Past Feylin, Some Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:52:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8764906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquietpersonwithaloudmind/pseuds/aquietpersonwithaloudmind
Summary: An Elucien florist AU.





	1. Chapter 1

Elain had almost finished her botany homework when the bell on the door jingled, alerting her to a customer. She quickly slid the diagrams of plants underneath the counter, and put on the pleasant smile she wore when anyone was looking. 

Whoever the customer was, they took their time through the little florist's shop, looking at the candles and potpourri and fake bouquets towards the front of the store.  She heard a quiet "shit," in a masculine voice, cut off just as quickly as it began, as if he felt he shouldn't swear in such a place. It was then that she leaned against the counter, already knowing who she'd be dealing with. 

Elain loved her job at this quiet shop, surrounded by flowers. The owner was an older woman who was too ancient at this point to do much, and so Elain worked long hours around her college classes, doing her homework when there was no one there, essentially running the place. It was quite apparent the owner was grooming Elain to take over when she retired, and Elain was delighted at the prospect. Though she was here for the flowers, the customer service side of things could be surprisingly interesting. She delighted in seeing the messages that were attached to the extravagant bouquets they delivered, loved to see the stories that came attached to sunflowers or orchids or roses and baby's breath. A disappointing amount stoked the fire that burned in her chest when she thought about the horribleness of the human race ("sorry I forgot your birthday" "sorry I forgot our fiftieth anniversary" "sorry I got drunk and slept with your twin because I thought it was you"); the real gems were those that made her heart melt, surprisingly few and far between ("Happy Birthday!" "Congratulations!" "I love you"). Having taken numerous orders, she was used to certain customer-types, could guess with accuracy which category their message would fall into. A man that swore inside a florist’s, wandering around awkwardly as if he didn't want to face the worker? Definitely the first. 

But she almost wished she could be wrong as he came into sight. 

Red hair, bright as a flame, just long enough to run her fingers through. A finely boned face she never wanted to stop looking at. A body cut enough to mean he exercised, while not being so built it meant he exercised for his looks. Wearing khaki slacks and dress shoes and a light blue button down with sleeves pushed up, leaving his muscled forearms on display. Most striking was the ragged scar that stretched from above his eye down to one cheek, through a golden eye made of glass. If anything, it only enhanced his beauty. 

She might have drooled a little before she shook herself back to the present. _ A boy that pretty, dressed that preppy? Definitely apologizing for a stupid, gross mistake that's he's not really sorry for.  _

He finally wandered over to the counter, wiping a bead of bright red blood off his thumb. He must have touched one of the roses by the front, thinking it was fake, before finding its thorns very real. "Hello," he said. "I'm looking to purchase a bouquet."

"Did you have a specific one in mind?" she asked, trying to keep her voice normal. 

He hesitated before admitting, "no." She laughed to herself over his discomfort over being at a florist's. 

She stepped out from behind the counter, beginning to walk around the store and show him their different flowers, their different bouquet styles. "May I ask the occasion?"

He grimaced. "My best friend recently got into kind of a big fight with his girlfriend. He asked me to get a bouquet he could bring to her to help patch things up."

She blinked. Someone not even picking out their own apology flowers was a new low.

"Well," she continued smoothly, the light shining from this man like that of heaven itself suddenly dimming.  _ Who thought picking out apology flowers for your friend was okay? _ "How big is 'big'?"

"Big," he said, his voice suddenly sad. "We're prepared to spare no expense."

"May I suggest one of our larger bouquets then?" 

He hadn't been lying about how much he was willing to spend, and it didn't take much convincing for him to purchase a monstrosity of calla lilies and freesias and ferns worth more then her weekly wage. 

_ Yep _ , she thought as she rung him up.  _ Rich and preppy and expensive and an asshole. Not going to happen.  _

She gave him a bright smile. "Would you like to fill out the card with your message?" She slid the little pink piece of cardstock over to him.

"Oh, uh, I think my friend should do that. Can I take it with me then bring it back when I pick the bouquet up to have you attach it?"

She blinked. "We do have a delivery service if you would prefer."

"No," he said. "My friend wanted to deliver them to her himself."

"Well then, it should be ready in a couple of days. Could I have a number to call when it's ready for pick up?"

He gave it, then left. Elain spent the rest of her shift trying to calm her racing heart. 

God, he was an idiot. 

Going to that florist's today for Tamlin had been an uncomfortable errand for him to run as it was, but then the florist herself? He felt the grossness of the deed he was committing, reflected in her large brown doe eyes, shining off her golden-brown hair. 

Trying to keep Feyre and Tamlin together was one thing, but trying to patch up their fight, a fight in which Tamlin had been so far in the wrong Lucien didn't know how to tell him? That was another thing. But what was Lucien to do? Tamlin's inheritance from his father's company kept Lucien with food and clothes and a roof over his head. As gross as it made him feel, picking out an apology bouquet for his girlfriend was the such a small thing in the face of such a massive debt. 

He groaned, throwing himself onto his bed. He didn't know how he was going to face her again when he went to pick up the flowers.  _ Maybe, _ he thought, _ it would be someone else entirely.  _ He couldn’t decide if that made him happy or not. 

 

Two days later, Elain walked into the florist’s for the final shift of the day. There was already a note on the back counter saying that a customer had been called and would be in to pick up his bouquet by six.  _ Maybe it's a different customer _ , she thought, but the phone number was his. And as the shop closed at six, and she was here until closing… she would have to see him again. 

She had brought homework, but there was no way she was going to be able to do it with the thought of him looming like this. So she sat down at the counter to wait. 

The minutes became an hour as Elain stared at nothing. She told herself she was thinking of new bouquet designs, but really she was thinking of him, the gorgeous asshole whose name she didn’t even know. 

The sound of the bell on the door jingling brought her to her senses, and she straightened in her chair, glancing around the shop to take stock of everything she saw. 

This time, there was no hesitation: the customer came right to the counter, and she steeled herself as those sharp brown eyes met hers. 

His hard expression softened, and he stumbled over his words. “I’m—I have a bouquet—to be—to be picked up, I mean.”

“Name?” she asked, though she didn’t need to. She knew which bouquet was his. 

“It’ll be under Bradford. No, wait. Greenwood, I mean,” he corrected himself. “Bradford is my name; Greenwood is my friend’s,” he explained unnecessarily. 

She smiled and walked over to the cooler, pulling out his bouquet. “Here you are. You paid last time, so you’re all set.” He took the bouquet clumsily in his hands, and she was almost afraid he was going to drop it. 

She got the door for him, and watched as he tried to open the door of his BMW. She almost ran out to help him with that as well, but he managed to get his keys out of his pocket and press a button that opened the door automatically.  _ Of course,  _ she thought with disgust, and went back into the shop.    

 

A few hours later, Elain climbed the stairs to the apartment she owned with her two sisters. There had been several months where it was just her and her older sister Nesta, the younger Feyre having moved in with her boyfriend of six months, Tamlin. That had only lasted until he became so overly controlling that he tried locking Feyre inside his house. Though they hadn’t technically broken up, Feyre had moved back in with her sisters. If Tamlin didn’t apologize soon, this would probably be permanent. 

Not that Elain minded. She loved her sisters, even if their relationship had been rocky for years after their mother died and their father’s fortune was lost. But apologies had been made, gaps had been bridged, and Elain was almost happy Feyre had returned, even if it was under unfavorable circumstances. She’d missed her sister. 

She unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Feyre? Nesta? You home?”

“In the kitchen!” was called back, though Elain couldn’t tell by who. Feyre and Nesta were similar in a lot of ways, their voices being one of them. 

Elain kicked off her shoes and padded into the kitchen, her stomach grumbling with the promise of food. But when she turned the corner, she stopped dead. 

The monstrosity of a bouquet she had sold to the redheaded man only a few hours before was now in a vase on their little kitchen table. 

“Those are my flowers,” Elain said, staring at them. Sitting next to each other at the table, Feyre and Nesta stared at her. 

“Tamlin dropped them off a couple of hours ago,” Feyre said with an eyeroll. The card says ‘I love you’ on it. He doesn’t seem to get that’s not an apology.” She tilted her head before saying “Weird he wouldn’t recognize you though. Maybe our different eye colors threw him off.”

Elain shook her head, struggling for words as she continued staring at the flowers. “I didn’t sell them to him.” Elain had seen Tamlin before, dropping Feyre off after a date. His golden hair and green eyes definitely did not belong to the man in the store.

Feyre stiffened, her eyes darkening. “What.”

“I sold them to a man with red hair. He said he was picking them out for his friend to give to his friend’s girlfriend. He said his name was…” she pretended to thinking about it, even though she already knew. “Bradford. His name was Bradford.”

“Lucien,” Feyre said, voice flat and eyes dark with rage. “Tamlin sent his best friend to pick out a bouquet for me. What an absolute piece of shit.”

They were all silent for a minute. “Are—are you going to call him out on it, tell him it’s my shop? Should I tell—Lucien—” she stumbled on the name, wanting to hoard it like a secret “if he comes back in, should I tell him?”

Feyre was silent for another long moment, thinking. “No. We’re not going to mention it. If he’s going to act like a douchebag, he can at least help pay your wages with it. Maybe you’ll get a raise.”

Feyre looked at the flowers. “I’m so glad you could bring something from work home for us, Elain,” she said. “They really brighten up the place.” 

And that was that. 

Tamlin’s best friend— _ Lucien, _ she thought of him when alone—continued coming back to the florist, always when she was there. He bought expensive bouquets, each purchase different from the one before. She steered him towards flowers and colors she knew Nesta and Feyre and herself would like. Their apartment began filling with flowers, Feyre lavishing just enough attention on Tamlin when he delivered them to make him think his non-apologies were working. Elain had never known or appreciated her little sister’s acting skills until then. 

Elain appreciated even more that Feyre’s acting skills meant she got to continue seeing Lucien’s beautiful face in her store multiple times a week. Not that she imagined or wanted anything more from him. But his beauty was too great to not enjoy, and the scar intrigued her. What could have happened to someone as young as he that they would be left with such a mark?

It was one day, when he came in to order another bouquet for Feyre, that she brought it up. 

She blamed it on the allnighter she had pulled the night before, courtesy of the two tests and one project that had been due that day. He had walked in a half an hour before closing, and she ran through her spiel in a stupor. He chose one, and she led him back to the counter to fill out the order form. 

Elain watched as he bent over the wooden counter to fill in the form with his smooth writing. His position gave her the chance to examine his scar without his noticing. 

“How did you get that?” she blurted out, and his eyes shot up to meet hers. “Your scar.”

He straightened, not looking at her as he did. Belatedly, Elain realized that it was not an appropriate question from a florist to their customer. Her tiredness had apparently made her brain short circuit.  “I’m—I’m so sorry. I haven’t gotten a lot of sleep lately, and—” she was babbling, again—“that’s not any of my business.” 

“No, it’s fine. Questions are better than stares.” He cleared his throat. “My friend had… a stalker. She wanted him, and he wasn’t interested, but she wouldn’t leave him alone. I went to her on his behalf to convince her to stop. She carved my eye out with her fingernail for it.”

“The police?” Elain asked, horrified and confused and—angry. She wanted to find whoever had hurt him in such a way, and make them regret it. 

“She was a high-ranking politician. She had the police in her pocket.”

“So she’s still out there?”

“My friend fell in love with another girl. She scared the stalker off, getting her to move across the country.”

Elain realized who this story was about, now. She remembered Feyre saying that she had to fight for Tamlin, fight long and hard to free him from the clutches of Amarantha, who had made Feyre’s own life hell before she had left.

“It suits you,” Elain said. 

He smiled, the first time Elain had ever seen him smile, and she thought that it suited him just as well as the scar.

“Thank you,” he said, and slid the order form over to her. “I’ll pay next time. Good night, Elain.”

The door swung shut after him at the same time the clock struck six.

It was only a couple of weeks after that encounter that their apartment had enough flowers, and Feyre tired of the game. When Tamlin came to make his delivery for that day, Feyre took the bouquet, told him in no uncertain terms that they were done, his lack of understanding as to why his actions were wrong was both disgusting and concerning, and if he came after her ever again, she’d slap him with a restraining order faster than he could blink. 

Elain only heard about it afterwards, and despite being happy for Feyre, she couldn’t help but feel a little saddened by the loss of Lucien in her life. 

 

He laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and thought of what Tamlin had told him. 

The flowers had finally stopped working, and Feyre had officially broken up with Tamlin. Lucien hadn’t expected them to last as long as they had, anyway. Feyre was smart and resourceful. Tamlin and her had never quite fit, and Lucien was glad she had enough strength to end it. And yet… he didn’t want to stop seeing Elain. He would miss her, he realized, miss her smile, the way her eyes saw him, more than anyone else ever had. And sometime in the midst of their strange acquaintanceship, he had begun thinking of her as more than that. 

He didn’t know how to ask. 

_ Goddammit, Lucien, what is wrong with you?  _ He berated himself.  _ If this was a year or two ago, you wouldn’t be second guessing yourself. You’ve flirted with a lot of pretty girls, you’ve managed to get plenty of dates. You’ve done it before, and you can do it again.  _

But never with a girl that made him feel at  _ home _ , that had him double- and triple-checking his words, in case he said something to make her think lesser of him. Never with  _ her.  _

_You’ve done it before, and you can do it again,_ he repeated to himself. _Dust off that charm._ _Woo her. She’ll go on a date with you. She’ll want to._

He fell asleep thinking of her saying yes. 

 

Two weeks later, when the bell on the door of the florist’s shop jingled and the customer made their way to the counter, Elain expected it to be the woman she sold a bouquet to a couple days ago coming to pick it up. 

Instead, red hair and brown eyes stared back at her. 

She was so surprised she blurted out, “What  are you doing here?”

One eyebrow rose, and she noticed there was a slight spark in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, a teasing tilt to the smile— _ smile? _ —on his lips. “I’m buying flowers, of course. That is what one tends to do in florist shops.”

Was he…teasing her? She shook her head, trying to reset herself.  _ He doesn’t know you’re Feyre’s sister, dammit.  _

“Of course,” she answered belatedly. “I just meant—what can I help you with today? Still helping your friend out?”

“Actually, I’m here for myself.”

“Oh, of course,” she said, and tried to discount that sinking in her stomach.  _ He’s attractive, with money. Why wouldn’t he be sending flowers to a girl of his own?  _ “Did you have anything in mind? I’m sure you’re familiar with our stock by now.”  _ Making personal connections to customers—a good way to make them regulars, _ she thought to herself, as if the smile she flashed him was about business.  

He put his elbows on the counter and leaned in. “I know I’ve asked you this before, but I value your opinion enough to ask again: what would you want to receive, if a man was giving flowers to you?”

Elain’s mouth went dry. His eyes weren’t brown, she noticed, so close to him. They were russet, almost amber as the light coming through the windows caught them. She could have sworn sparks of fire swirled in their depths. 

“Dahlias,” she replied, and his fiery gaze dropped to her parted lips. She all but threw herself out from behind the counter, terrified at the thought of how much she wanted to kiss him. 

He followed her over to the cooler, where she pulled out a bucket of cut dahlias in various colors to show him. “They’re a personal favorite of mine.”

“I’ll take one,” he said, looking at her.

She blinked. “One—one bouquet?”

“No,” he said. “A single flower. Assuming that’s okay.”

“I—yes. Yes, that’s fine. Which one did you want?”

Without breaking eye contact, he replied, “You choose.”

She breathlessly picked out a cream-and-pink flower she had been admiring and brought it to the counter. She rung the flower up, he paid, and she handed the flower to him. He twirled it between his fingertips for a few seconds, watching the bloom spin. Then he handed it to her. 

“What—”

“Would you go out for dinner with me? Or lunch!” he quickly added. “Or coffee. Or a walk. Or anything.”

She was rendered speechless. “I-I-” she let out a breath. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course,” he said with a smile, though this one held no teasing within it, only…comfort. “Did you want my number? Or for me to come back in later this week?”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll be here tomorrow in the afternoon. Stop by then, and I’ll have my answer.”

He smiled again. “Tomorrow,” he said, and left. 

She didn’t stop touching her flower the rest of her shift. 

 

When Elain and her sisters sat down together that night with pizza in front of the TV, Elain kept her eyes fixed on the documentary they were watching as she tried to think of a way to broach the subject of Lucien. They hadn’t noticed or commented on the dahlia she had brought home today, thinking, perhaps, it had some imperfection making it impossible to sell, but that Elain hadn’t minded looking at. She had been grateful to get away with it. 

Elain had known when he had first asked her that the decision rested greatly in Feyre’s hands. Elain didn’t know much about Lucien. The time he spent in her flower shop had shown her some things: his unwavering loyalty to those he cared for, even when someone perhaps didn’t deserve it. Both a sweet, silent, awkwardness, a caring he didn’t quite know how to manifest, and a  love of teasing, of quick thoughts and equally quick responses, a mind that worked faster than others gave him credit for, a mind that ached for a challenge. Elain didn’t know if she could keep up with him like that, but she wanted to try. 

Feyre knew him better, though. She knew him comfortably, as a friend would. She would know if Elain’s interest was well founded, or if Lucien was no better than Tamlin. 

No matter what Elain’s impression of Lucien was, she would trust Feyre’s judgement if she said Lucien was bad. She had no desire for a relationship based on control. 

Steeling her courage, Elain reached over and muted the TV when it switched to a commercial. Her sisters turned to stare at her, wondering what that was for. 

“Lucien came back into the shop today,” she said. 

Nesta stiffened, but it was Feyre who said, “If Tamlin thinks more flowers are going to whoo me—”

“It wasn’t for Tamlin,” Elain said quickly. Her voice softened as she said, “It was for me. He asked if I would go on a date with him.”

“Not a chance in hell,” Nesta said distinctly.

Feyre just watched her. “What did you say?”

“I told him I needed to think about it, that if he came back tomorrow, I’d have an answer. I wanted to make sure it was okay with you, Feyre. For multiple reasons. You know him better than me. I like what I’ve seen of him, but you liked Tamlin too, at the start.” Feyre’s expression tightened, but Elain pushed on. “And that’s the second reason. If Lucien and Tamlin are best friends, if they  _ live  _ together, going out with Lucien might mean running into Tamlin as well. I don’t know if you’re comfortable with that.”

Feyre was silent for a few moments, thinking. “Do  _ you  _ want to go on a date with him?” 

Elain opened her mouth, but Feyre cut her off before she could speak. “Seriously, Elain. If Tamlin and I hadn’t existed as we did, if we hadn’t met each other, hell if we  _ didn’t exist,  _ but Lucien still came into your shop as he did, if he still acted as he did, would you want to go on a date with him?”

“Yes,” Elain said. Of course she had. She had wanted him since that very first day, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise. She had wanted to feel her hands running through his hair, wanted to find out the secrets that lay encased in his lips, hidden behind those russet eyes. She had wanted him so much—not just his body, not just his mind, but his very  _ soul _ —in a way she couldn’t justify or explain or quantify, and it terrified her. “Yes, I want to go with him.”

“Then go,” Feyre said. “One date won’t determine much. If you want to start getting serious with him, maybe we can discuss the Tamlin issue then. But you haven’t dated in a while, Elain. You have every right to—hell, you  _ deserve  _ to. So go.”

Nesta was almost shaking. “You’re  _ willing  _ to let your sister go off with the friend of the man who locked you away, who stole you, who almost destroyed you? Your little sister—”  

“I’m older than Feyre is,” Elain reminded Nesta flatly.

“Lucien isn’t like Tamlin,” Feyre said. “He wouldn’t treat someone like that. He saw what Tamlin was doing, and he knew Tamlin was in the wrong for it.”

“And he didn’t help you?” Nesta said. 

“He tried. Tamlin retaliated when he did.”

Something in Elain’s chest tightened at the thought of what Tamlin’s retaliation might look like. Nesta thought Lucien was a perpetrator, but Elain saw a victim. 

Feyre cleared her throat uncomfortably. When she spoke again, her voice was pitched lower. “If you want to go on a date with him, Elain, you have my approval.”

Elain nodded, and Nesta’s sputtered protestations went unnoticed. Tomorrow, he would receive a yes. 

 

Elain waited through half her shift before he came. 

She felt as if the months learning each other were some sort of hallucination, because his—twentieth?—time coming into the shop was the same as his first. He spent far too long wandering around the front of the shop, out of her line of sight. She only knew it was him because she recognized the rhythm of his gait, how he was simultaneously careful and clumsy, graceful and awkward, moving around the vases and candles and soaps on display. 

After two tension-filled minutes, she finally called, “Lucien?”

He appeared, eyes downcast, in front of the counter a moment later. 

All teasing and flirting was gone now, his quick grins nowhere to be seen. Elain realized he was… nervous. 

She cleared her throat. “I believe you had a question, and I promised to have an answer.”

He stared at the wood countertop, waiting for her response. He thought she was going to say no, Elain realized. That’s why he was acting like this. 

“Lucien,” she said, but he didn’t move. 

“ _ Lucien,” _ she repeated, a little bit more forcefully. “I’m not giving you a response until you look at me. 

Slowly, his eyes lifted to hers. 

Her breath caught again at his beauty. That shining red hair she wanted to play with, that scar she wanted to run her finger over, wanted to hear the story behind, wanted to kiss until he associated it with love instead of hate. He could let her, she realized. 

She let out a breath and slid a little square of pink cardstock over to him. “This is my number,” she said, “and my address. I expect for you to make use of both by the time I see you outside of my door for our date.”

He was staring at her, eyes wide in disbelief. She could see as he realized what she was saying, because he broke into a brilliant smile she hadn’t seen before, and would do anything to see again. 

“So,” she asked. “When’s our date?”

That smile hadn’t even begun to fade as he said, “How about Saturday at noon?”

  
  


He couldn’t stop smiling. His thoughts were an endless cycle of  _ her,  _ her golden hair and deep brown eyes, the way her lips fell into a gentle smile he wanted to kiss, the way she said his name, the way she said  _ yes.  _ Even when he wasn’t thinking about her, he was thinking of their upcoming date, if she would guess his plans, if she would like it, if she would like  _ him.  _ He hoped so. 

“What do you look so happy about?”

Lucien winced, his smile falling away at Tamlin’s words.  _ Idiot,  _ he silently berated himself,  _ you should know better than to be happy in front of him.  _

His friend had been irritable and angry since Feyre had broken things off, and Lucien had been the one to start taking the brunt of Tamlin’s controlling demands. As far as Tamlin was concerned, Lucien shouldn’t be happy without telling him about it first. And even if he wanted to keep her a secret, he was left without a choice, now. 

“I have a date,” Lucien admitted. 

“With who?” 

_ Why did he sound so suspicious?  _ “With the florist, actually. From the flower shop I went to for—Feyre.”

Tamlin scoffed. “She’s obviously not a very good florist if she couldn’t even get Feyre to come back.”

_ No, Tam, that was no one’s fault but your own,  _ Lucien thought, but he bit his tongue. Calling Tamlin out could mean his own homelessness. 

Tamlin took a large sip of wine before saying, “When’s your date?”

“Saturday.”

“Are you going to meet her family?”

“Jesus Christ, Tam, it’s a date, not a marriage proposal.”

Another scoff. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Lucien blushed. He certainly felt  _ something  _ for her, something past what he’d felt on all his other first dates—something past even what he felt in his more serious relationships.

“And besides,” Tamlin continued, “if you don’t see where she lives, how do you know she’s not with you just for money?”

The endless cycle of  _ her  _ cut out. “What?”

“This is the florist, right? The florist who you went to regularly for two months, spending immense amounts of money on flowers? She must think you’re rich,” Tamlin said, and the words were a grating reminder as to how very  _ little  _ Lucien had, how much he owed Tamlin for. “If she lives in a rundown house, or god forbid an  _ apartment,  _ you’ll know she’s just with you for the money.”

Why was his friend so intent on ruining his happiness? “Fine, you know what? She gave me her address. We can check.” Lucien pulled out the pink piece of cardstock that smelled like a mix of floral scents— _ her _ —and opened it, scanning the words written in her perfect script. His heart sank. “It… is an apartment,” he admitted, reading off the street address and the complex name.

Tamlin stiffened. “What apartment number?”

If Lucien had been thinking straighter, he may have questioned why it mattered, but he dutifully read off, “Apartment 122.”

“That’s Feyre’s apartment.”

Lucien looked up at him. “Are you sure?”

Tamlin’s answering stare told him enough.

“Okay,” Lucien said slowly. “So maybe they’re roommates. It might be a coincidence, but…”

“Feyre lives with her sisters,” Tamlin said flatly. “What did you say your florist’s name is?”

It was only thinking about it that Lucien realized Feyre had mentioned her sisters enough times for him to know their names were Nesta and— “Elain,” Lucien breathed out. 

“What does she look like?”

“Brown eyes,” he hurried out. Feyre’s were blue, so it couldn’t be true. And her hair was golden brown, Lucien realized. The same golden brown as Tamlin’s ex. “Her hair is Feyre’s color.”

“Elain is the name of one of Feyre’s sisters. And she matches the description.”

They stared at each other for a silent minute. Then Tamlin threw his still-full wine glass against the wall. 

 

_ She knew,  _ Lucien thought a little while later, alone in his room.  _ Elain knew just what I was helping Tamlin apologize for. She knew what I was condoning.  _

_ And I felt awkward every time I walked into the shop  _ before  _ this happened. How am I supposed to face her now? _

He stared at himself in the mirror of his bathroom, taking in the split lip, the cut along his forehead, the blossoming bruise on his cheekbone. 

Whereas Lucien was ashamed of being found out— _ how could he face her, how could he face her, how could he face her— _ Tamlin had been furious. The wine glass hadn’t been the only piece of dishware that had suffered tonight, and when the contents of the table had been smashed to pieces… 

Lucien got out the rubbing alcohol, hissing as it met his skin. He knew there was no way his new wounds would be gone before his date Saturday, but he still wanted to try and look presentable. At this point, his looks were probably the only thing he had going for him.  _ She doesn’t seem to mind my scar,  _ Lucien thought.  _ Maybe she’ll see past these as well.  _

Maybe Lucien should have just agreed with Tamlin, went along with him. But how could Lucien agree to using Elain’s and his new relationship as a way to help Tamlin getting Feyre back, when Lucien thought she was better off without him? And when Tamlin had suggested that maybe Elain was only going out with him as a way for Feyre to get revenge on Tamlin… Lucien had been ashamed to admit he had been the one to attack first.

And while the cuts and bruises would fade within the next couple weeks, Lucien knew Tamlin’s comments would stay raw and open much longer. 

Why  _ did  _ she agree to go out with him, knowing what she did? He was terrible, worthless, complicit in Tamlin’s abuse of Feyre, and yet Elain gave him a chance. Elain had to have made the connection when the flowers he ordered began appearing around her home. Feyre had to have told her how awful he was, how entirely undeserving of her time. 

_ How could he face her?  _

How could he have her? 

How could he let her go? 

_ Saturday,  _ he told himself.  _ You already made the plans. Saturday, face her. You’ll tell her everything. You’ll give her a chance to say no.  _

_ (Or yes.) _

 

Elain was trying to find something to busy herself with as the clock clicked closer and closer to noon. 

She had already cleaned the coffee table, pluffed the couch pillows, and tidied up the various bouquets they still had around the apartment. Now, she was debating if her outfit would be appropriate for wherever the surprise date he promised may take her. 

“Elain,” Feyre called from the kitchen, a canvas in front of her and paints spread out around. It was the only place in their apartment that wasn’t carpeted, allowing Feyre the occasional paint splatter without having to worry too much. “Stop fussing. You look very pretty. I’m sure it’ll be fine for whatever Lucien has planned.”

Elain felt a little improper admitting it, but she  _ did  _ look pretty. She had bought the pink dress on a whim one day when she’d had some extra money, loving the full skirt and the small flowers climbing up the sleeves and over the bodice. She hadn’t worn it before, wanting to save it for a nameless  _ something special,  _ which had apparently turned out to be this date. 

Elain was just going to start dusting when there was a knock at the door. All of Elain’s enthusiasm and anticipation crumbled into a pile of nervousness at her feet.  _ What if he doesn’t like me, what if he says this was a mistake, what if what if what if—  _

“Elain,” Feyre called again, gentler this time. “Open the door.”

She pulled it open, working on blind orders, and there he was. 

He was wearing his usual outfit of khakis and a button down, today a red a few shades duller than his hair. Somehow, it didn’t clash. But when her eyes reached his face…

“Hello, Lucien,” she murmured. 

“Hello, Elain,” he replied, just as quiet, and for a long moment they watched each other. She was pleased to see his eyes get a faraway look she thought might be attraction as he took in her outfit. 

“Lucien.” Feyre’s voice cut them out of their reverie. 

Lucien looked away from Elain to see her sister instead. “Feyre.”

“You’re not surprised to see me here,” Feyre said, sounding a little confused herself. 

“Feyre, please—” Elain started, but Lucien responded. 

“Tamlin figured out the addresses matched.”

Feyre made a noncommittal noise, dipping her brush into a puddle of paint, as if she wasn’t paying attention. But her voice cut through to say, “So he knows you’re going on a date with my sister.”

“Yes.”

“What did he have to say about it?”

Lucien winced. “Nothing worth repeating.”

Elain looked at Lucien’s injuries and thought that they must have at least been worth getting into a fight over. 

Feyre gave another “hm,” then stood up. “This needs to dry,” she said, referencing the canvas in front of her. “Come get me if the easel tips over or something.” And Feyre wandered into her room, leaving them alone.

They were both silent for a long moment, then they were talking over each other. 

“Elain—”

“Should we—”

They stopped as quickly as they had started, waiting for the other one. 

“Elain,” Lucien rebegan slowly. “I wanted to ask you… why did you say yes to me?”

Elain blinked in surprise, and he continued before she could begin to respond.

“Knowing what you know about me… I live with a  _ monster.  _ A  _ monster  _ is my best friend. You know what he did, you saw how I helped him,  _ excused  _ him.” A blush turned his cheeks as red as his hair, and Elain felt the shame, the embarrassment deep in her stomach as if it was her own. “You’re… lovely, and beautiful and kind and  _ good,  _ and you shouldn’t stoop to someone like me.” He deflated, just like he had in the shop when he thought her refusal to their date imminent. Elain couldn’t stand it. 

“Lucien,” she said gently. “I don’t think Feyre was the only victim of Tamlin’s.” She drew her fingers feather-light over the bruise on his cheek, and his eyes fell closed. 

“Why don’t we discuss this over lunch?” she said, in that same quiet voice. 

He nodded beneath her hand. “Okay.” 

 

Elain was delighted to find their surprise date to be in a meadow, filled with wildflowers of blue and purple and yellow and white. She bounded ahead of Lucien, who was carrying the picnic basket and blanket.

Lucien appreciated the sight of her, hair and dress streaming behind, how very  _ natural  _ she looked here, like she was truly the doe she reminded him of. 

“Do you have a favorite spot?” she called to him.

He shook his head. “Pick wherever you like.”

She chose a spot that was covered only in grasses, though the flowers were merely an arm’s length away. “I didn’t want to crush any of them,” she explained as she took the blanket from him and spread it over the ground. Kicking off her shoes from beneath her dress, she sat gracefully down on the gingham-patterned cotton, her dress falling perfectly around her. She looked up at him expectantly, the smile on her face almost bringing him to his knees. Instead, he set the picnic basket down on the blanket and unlaced his oxfords, leaving them beside Elain’s much-smaller flats before joining her. She had already begun rifling through the basket, pulling out fruit and cheese and crackers and— 

“Champagne!” Elain giggled as she unearthed the bottle, along with the two flutes he had packed with it. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Lucien?” 

He knew she was teasing, but blushed anyway. “I figured you might—I don’t know. We don’t have to have it, I just—”

She popped the bottle and expertly poured out a glass for each of them, handing his flute to him as she took a sip of her own. 

“So what do you do?” she asked him. “Besides whoo girls in florists’ shops.”

He blushed again. How did this woman have such an effect on him? “I’m Tamlin’s assistant. At his company.”

She looked pensive, picking out and eating a strawberry before asking, “Do you enjoy it? The position?”

“Do you like your position?” He returned on reflex. “Doesn’t all the pollen bother you? Don’t you ever think about doing something more stable?” Even as he said the words, he regretted them. Elain wasn’t like the backstabbing political businessmen he was accustomed to. She didn’t deserve his ire.

Elain just watched him, waiting for an answer. “You seem to forget,” she said quietly, still holding her champagne delicately, “that my sisters are quite possibly the most stubborn, outwardly uncaring people on the planet. You’re going to have to try harder than that to scare me.”

“Elain, I’m sorry, I—”

“I know,” she said. “Now answer the question.”

“My position… it does what it needs to do.” He elaborated at her look. “It gives me the money I need to survive.”

“But not happiness.”

“I don’t even think I know what that word means anymore,” he confessed. 

He glanced up at her, expecting the stomach-turning look of pity, but instead found her eyes on him. Analyzing. 

Then, as if he hadn’t just made the confession of a lifetime, she replied to his earlier question. “I love working at the florist’s. It’s not actually my shop, so it’s not like I’m stuck in it. I’m working on my degree right now, so I  _ could  _ go into something more ‘stable’ if I really wanted to, but I love my flowers. If I don’t have to lose them, I don’t want to.”

Lucien was taken aback; he hadn’t expected an answer at all, not to mention one so eloquent. So he swallowed and nodded and watched as she looked around the meadow. 

“How did you find this place?” she asked. “It’s lovely.”

Lucien took in the waving grasses, the bursts and blots of wild color like an impressionist painting. “Just lucky, I guess. It’s part of a pretty large nature park I like hiking in, and I got lost from the trail one day and found this instead. It’s so calm, I’ll find myself coming here at the end of a bad day as a way to relax. It’s not as pretty in the fall and winter, but I love seeing the different flowers that grow from year to year. I don’t know any of their names, but I appreciate them all the same.”

She turned and pointed to to one of the wildflowers around them. 

“See this?” she asked, pointing to a yellow flower. “This is called goldenrod.”

He frowned. “I think I’m allergic to those.”

“You’re probably thinking of ragweed. They flower at the same time, though they’re not the same.”

She pointed to a different flower, large and orange this time. “This is milkweed. Monarch butterflies feed on the leaves, though luckily they leave the flowers alone.

“And this is painted trillium,” she said, referencing a white flower with pink around the middle. “They’re my favorite,” she whispered conspiratorially.

“I thought you said dahlias were your favorite?” Lucien asked, thinking of the flower he bought her only a few days ago.

“My favorite ‘professional’ flower. Not my favorite wildflower.”

Elain continued naming all the blossoms around them, and Lucien was fascinated. What had always been something of a passing interest, a nagging thought that told him to look up these different plants he was surrounded with but never did, was now being answered and described for him in brilliant detail. Elain’s voice kept him listening as well, its rise and fall, the rhythm of a lullaby. 

“And that one—” Elain said, pointing to the only flower in the meadow she hadn’t named. Lucien waited but she frowned and said, “I don’t think I know that one.”

He laughed, a big belly laugh, the way he hadn’t since he had two eyes and no master. Elain joined him, the wide spread of her smile encouraging his own. When their laughter finally subsided, she asked, “Watch the clouds with me?”

He nodded, and they moved the food out of the way to lie down on the blanket. 

“That looks like a duck,” Elain said, pointing to a cloud that was distinctly ducklike. They watched it move across the sky, watched the bill elongate and the body shift until…

“It looks more like an elephant, now,” Lucien said. “Duck by day, elephant by night. Our newest blockbuster,” he said, affecting a narrator voice, and Elain laughed. 

“What about that one?” she said, pointing to another cloud, a much more linear lump.

“It looks like a bike to me.”

She squinted. “Where are the handlebars?”

“No, I mean a motorcycle.”

She shivered. “Those things are terrifying.”

“I used to ride one, you know.”

“Really?” The thought was so at odds with the polite, awkward man she knew, his wardrobe of khakis and button-downs.

“Yep. The first thing I did after I turned eighteen and got my license was buy an old, beat up motorcycle for cheap. Rode it everywhere. My parents were of much the same mind as you.”

“Why don’t you ride it anymore? Ready for some peace and quiet in your old age?” she teased.

“No, my—my father didn’t think it was appropriate for the son of a business tycoon to ride one. He took it away.”

Elain was silent for a moment, and Lucien knew that if he turned, he would see that look of analyzation. “But you don’t live with your father anymore. You live with your friend.”

Lucien cleared his throat. “My friend doesn’t think it’s appropriate that the assistant to a business tycoon ride one.”

She made a small noise, and Lucien kept his eyes on the sky even as he felt her turn to watch him.

“That’s a crown,” Lucien said when another cloud passed by. 

And so they laid together on the blanket, bodies not quite touching, and found the dreams and stories written in the sky. 

 

Lucien was vaguely aware of his own consciousness, vaguely aware of being warm and content. His head was slightly elevated from the rest of his body, laying on a silky fabric, and there was something running through his hair. 

_ Elain. Date. Picnic,  _ he slowly remembered, and cracked open his eyes.

Deep brown eyes met his, framed by hair the color of burnished gold. “Hello sleepyhead.”

His head was on her lap, he realized, resting on her full skirt. It had been her fingers that he had felt in his hair. Though he could feel her fingers were stationary now, a tugging against his scalp remained, and he lifted a hand to his head to feel something soft. “You… wove flowers into my hair?”

“I asked if I could play with it, and you said you didn’t mind. You fell asleep sometime while I was doing it.”

He vaguely remembered that now. She had wanted to listen to his stories about the clouds, which is why he had to stay on his back, and she had wanted to play with his hair, which explained their position. 

“Do you like it?” she asked. “The flowers?” 

He used his phone’s camera as a mirror, and there was something satisfactory, something  _ right  _ about seeing her mark on him in such a way. “I love it,” he said. “I love… you.”

That last word slipped out and he was blushing but he couldn’t take it back because it was  _ true.  _ Elain’s breathing hitched, sped up, and their eyes locked. He leaned up and she leaned down and— 

 

_ Oh. This is what kissing someone you love feels like.  _

They pulled back, looking at the other, assessing. And when they found the other felt the same, they met again. And again. And again.

 

It was only when the sun moved from overhead to the west that Elain said, “We should probably pack up, before it gets dark.” 

“I don’t want this date to end,” Lucien said softly.

“Neither do I,” Elain admitted in return, and they watched each other for a moment. 

“There’s a small town nearby with a main street and cute little shops. What if we pack up here, then go take a walk around there?” Lucien offered.

Elain’s answering smile was so bright, he couldn’t help but return it.

  
  


By the time they made it into town, the sky was dark, but the lights were bright. Both the large streetlights and the window displays provided illumination, but the fairy lights, strung up in the trees and lampposts year round, were the most beautiful.

Elain felt as if she was in a dream.

They strolled hand in hand along the sidewalk in comfortable silence. The window displays they passed were gorgeous, each a work of art, though they differed in medium: clothing or books or even flowers. 

Elain laughed lightly as they passed a florist’s shop, pointing it out to Lucien. “You could’ve gone there instead of to mine,” she teased.

“Ah, but they don’t have my favorite type of flower.”

“Oh?”

“The elain,” he said. “Rare. One of a kind, in fact. But beautiful beyond compare.”

She couldn’t help breaking into a smile. She couldn’t remember the last time she had smiled so much in one day, in one  _ week.  _ She knew her sisters thought her soft and kind and unconditionally happy, but the smile she wore at all times to put others at ease was nothing compared to those Lucien found in her. She reached up to kiss him on the cheek, an imperfect expression of what she felt. Later, when they were alone, she’d have to remind him what true happiness felt like from her.

It was the next ship that had Elain stopping to examine the window display. 

It was a men’s boutique, rife enough with possibly with one now standing at her side. But what particularly struck her was the mannequin wearing black jeans, aviators, and a leather jacket.

“Lucien,” she said. “When you had your bike, did you ever dress for it?”

“Elain…”

She dragged him inside.

It didn’t take long to find the appropriate pieces of clothing. When Elain asked him for his size, he responded with, “Elain… Tamlin—Tamlin wouldn’t want me to.”

She watched him for a long second, taking in those pleading eyes, those khakis and button downs she was just now realized might be something of a uniform. “I’m not talking to Tamlin,” she finally said. “I’m talking to you.”

He took the clothes and went to the dressing room.

She waited outside, just picturing how gorgeous he would be, the black offsetting his bright hair, those aviators offsetting his angular cheekbones, making way for the curve of his smile. 

The door unlocked, and he stepped out, as glorious as her vision had depicted him. 

The force of her kiss pushed him back into the fitting room, and they didn’t emerge for a long while. 

★★★


	2. Epilogue

_ 3 years later _

 

The bell on the door jingled, and he broke their kiss to hurry back to the cash register, so at least the customer would think them professional. His wife’s smug smile from where she stood by the flower cooler said he wasn’t fooling her. 

They both listened to the customer wandering around the front of the store. Heavy steps moved across the creaking floorboards at the front, but there was a certain confidence to them, as if the customer was inspecting the displays Lucien had set up with interest instead of awkwardness.

_Anniversary,_ Lucien mouthed to Elain.

_Confident man, first date,_ she guessed back. They played together the game Elain once had alone. As always, they played for kisses. He liked having her on the counter, standing between her legs. She liked him in the meadow full of flowers where they had fallen in love. Lucien didn’t mind that she normally won. 

Lucien faced forward at the cash register as Elain went back to trimming flowers for a bouquet at her workbench in front of the flower cooler. It had been one of the changes she had made when the old owner had retired and passed ownership to Elain: a way for her to do what she loved, where she loved, next to the one she loved. It also made it easier for her to switch between cashier and florist when Lucien was out running deliveries. And when the day was done, they would climb upstairs to the small apartment they owned above the shop and fall asleep in each other’s arms. 

Elain had gotten her degree, and Lucien had connections in case the shop was ever not enough for their expenses. But for now, as for the last couple of years, they were happy, and healthy, and loved. They did not want anything more.

Only a minute or so after entering, the customer made his way into the back of the store, and-

_“Cassian?”_ Elain said. 

Cassian froze, his eyes tracking over the both of them. “Elain? Lucien? I didn’t know you both worked here.”

“I own the shop,” Elain said. 

His eyes widened. Lucien had never seen such a heavily muscled man look so much like a deer in the headlights. “Then why is it called Johnson Flowers? Neither of your last names are Johnson.”

“It was the old owner’s last name, and we didn’t want to disrespect her by changing it. At least it’s better than his idea of ‘Eye of the Beeholder.’” Elain gestured to Lucien, smiling wryly. 

“That’s a great name!” Cassian and Lucien insisted in unison, looking at each other in shock when they did. 

Elain burst into pealing laughter, Lucien smiling in happiness as he watched her. Moments like these—they were what made it all worth it. The shame and embarrassment of what had first brought them together, what it had taken to finally tell Tamlin “no,” and then later, to tell Tamlin he was leaving, that he and Elain were moving in together, that Tamlin was alone and he was free—every hard moment, every hard call, was worth it for these moments of love. 

When Elain finally calmed down, she said simply, “Nesta doesn’t care much for flowers.” 

“I know,” Cassian said with a sigh, then continued with a low grumble, “I’m starting to think she doesn’t like anything.”

“She likes you,” Elain said.

Cassian and Nesta had known each other for a while now; Rhys and Feyre had been married a year ago, only a few months after Elain and Lucien. Nesta and Cassian’s interactions had been nothing but sexual tension since they had been introduced, though tension was as far as it had gone to Elain’s knowledge. She was glad to see one of them was finally doing something about it. 

“Yes but-” Cassian stuttered. “She might like me, but if she doesn’t like flowers… I’ve never asked a woman out with a book.”

Lucien stepped out from behind the counter, moving to clap Cassian on the shoulder. He had healed his friendship with Feyre during his time with her sister, and had formed a camaraderie with Cassian when Rhys and his friends had entered their lives. “She’s an Archeron, bro. Get used to doing things you haven’t before for her.”

Elain laughed before joining them on the other side of her workbench. “And while a book is definitely the best, if you really want to give her flowers, wildflowers are the way to go. The effort you put into picking and arranging them is more important to her than the bouquet itself.” 

Cassian nodded slowly and stepped back. “Thank you.”

“There’s a bookstore down the street,” Lucien said, smiling, and Elain good-naturedly rolled her eyes. They could start their own bookstore out of the florist shop with the library Lucien had brought with him when he moved out of Tamlin’s, and all those he bought from the neighboring store. 

Cassian thanked them again. “I’ll see you at family dinner Sunday,” he said as he left. “Family dinner” had been instated as a tradition during Feyre and Rhys’ engagement, a weekly supper with the Archerons, Rhys and his four friends, and Lucien. Sometimes it ended with laughter, other times with too much alcohol, but it was always a joyful affair, and that was the most important.  

The door closed with a jingle, and they were alone once more. 

“I win,” Elain said, a light in her eyes and a smile on her lips. 

He smirked. “Unfortunately that means you don’t get to collect your prize until we can drive out there.”

She made a humming noise and stepped closer, raising up on her tiptoes, her lips a breath away from Lucien’s. “I’ll surrender to you,” she breathed. “Just this once.”

He smiled, flipped the sign to closed, and hoisted her up on the counter. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to whitecoffee, who requested a continuation and finally gave me an excuse to write the epilogue I have been wanting to write but didn't think anyone wanted to read. I hope you liked it! Thank you also to [rileylefae](rileylefae.tumblr.com) for coming up with "Eye of the Beeholder," and [catastrophicallyinlovewithbooks](catastrophicallyinlovewithbooks.tumblr.com) for giving me inspiration concerning Nesta's flower preferences!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to tell me what you thought below, and come talk to me on [tumblr!](http://www.cass-ian.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thank you to my lovely beta [merflk.](http://www.merflk.tumblr.com) Thank you also to the amazing [rileylefae](http://www.rileylefae.tumblr.com) for dealing with me for the past two months as I was writing this fic. Also, for fateful discussions on biker!Lucien. Love you, darling.


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